


IA stands for Internal Anguish

by History_On_Repeat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack, Dense Harry, Humor, Ib - Freeform, International Baccalaureate Diploma Program, M/M, Oblivious Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-25 07:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17117351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/History_On_Repeat/pseuds/History_On_Repeat
Summary: In which Hogwarts is an IB school, Tom takes 4 HLs, and Harry nearly fails CAS.______WARNING: Explicit usage of IB jargon may incite past traumatic memories and cause undue stress to IB students. Viewer's discretion is advised.





	1. How Harry Almost Missed His IOP

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Violettan1227](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violettan1227/gifts).



Harry cursed as he sprinted down the hall.

He was screwed. 

He was so, _so_ screwed.

His final presentation was scheduled to begin at 8:30 am on the dot. It was the oral portion of IB English HL course, worth a whopping 15% of his mark. Hermione had stressed upon him on multiple occasions the importance of this day. 

_Arrive 15 minutes early_ , she had told him. _Dress professionally_.

It was 8:27.

His white dress shirt was unkempt and untucked from when he had hastily thrown in on after morning meet-ups with his team. His blazer was still stuffed within his shoulder bag. 

Once again, Harry Potter was _screwed_.

But it wasn’t his fault that practice ran late that morning. Nor was the fact that his phone hadn’t charged properly the previous night, and had died without him knowing, which meant that his carefully set alarm had never gone off.

His infamously ludicrous luck seemed to have all but vanished. 

During his run, his glasses have begun to slip down the bridge of his nose. This, combined with stray locks of his untameable hair, managed to entirely obscure his vision. Which, in retrospect, probably made the following inevitable.

“Gah!”

His screech of surprise echoed in the halls even as he laid on the ground, staring dazedly up at the ceiling. He turned his head and could barely make out the sign for the school lavatories. A puddle of water soaked the ground. The yellow sign that read “Caution! Wet Floor!” was leaning against the wall, impossible _not_ to miss. 

Great.

Harry groaned. He didn’t even want to think about the implications of the cool dampness that was now crawling up along his pant legs.

“Need a hand?” 

That smooth, baritone drawl could only possibly belong to one person. Harry snapped his eyes shut, wishing for the floor to swallow him whole. Of course — _of bloody course —_ it just all had to get worse.

He couldn’t simply be late to only the most important day of his eleventh grade, with dishevelled hair, dirt-stained runners, and a suspicious wet stain on his trousers. Oh, no. He just had to make a complete and utter fool of himself in front of the student council president, IB program poster boy, Mr. Tom I’m-taking-four-HLs Marvolo and-getting-7’s-in-all-of-them Riddle. 

Because apparently, his luck could only ever be either ridiculously good or disastrously bad. And on that day, it seemed to be the latter.

Now, the normal thing to do would be to accept his help and say ‘thanks’. But Harry, being Harry, blurted out the first thing on his mind. “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

Which probably wasn’t the smartest response, considering they were both supposed to be in HL English. The _same_ English class.

An elegant brow rose. “No.” A pause. “But you are.”

Harry blinked at the statement, surprised. But he really shouldn’t be — if anyone was superfluous enough to have memorized the entire presentation schedule, it would have been Riddle. Or Hermione.

“It’s 8:31,” Riddle informed him, checking his watch.

Harry moaned, head falling back against the floor with a dull thud. “It’s over. I’m _finished_.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Harry wasn’t looking, but he didn’t need a visual image to sense the other’s eye roll. 

A hand grabbed firmly onto his arm and hauled him up. Harry stumbled, but the complaint died in his throat when he stared up into a face that was much too close to his own. 

Sharp cheekbones, aquiline nose, and perfect skin. And eyelashes that, Harry was sure, were longer than even Ginny’s. Because it’s Tom Riddle, and naturally, even his _eyelashes_ have to be perfect. 

Riddle’s propensity for perfection might have been comedic, had he not achieved exactly that. And with such effortless grace, as well.

Frankly, it was irritating.

He came back to his senses as Riddle corked a shapely brow, having caught him in his gawking. Harry scowled, pulling his arm free from the other’s hold and stepping back.

“Where are you going?” Riddle sounded amused. “The classroom is that way.”

At the reminder, Harry swore under his breath. He sullenly trailed after the taller boy, praying to whatever divine entity was out there that Professor McGonagall wouldn’t hold his tardiness against him. By that point, he knew that it would be a miracle if he was allowed to present at all.

 

* * *

Really, Harry needn’t have doubted his legendary luck.

Nor Riddle’s popularity amongst certain professors, for that matter. 

Harry would remain forever grateful to the traffic delay that had kept Professor McGonagall from her first lesson, and had resulted in Professor Slughorn subbing in. He was positive that the extra ten minutes he had been given to change his clothes and prepare were a byproduct of the sole fact that he had walked in with Riddle.

“That was blatant favouritism,” Hermione grumbled when lunch came around. “How do you know Tom Riddle, anyway? He’s known for being quite distant with anyone not outside of his direct friend circle, but you guys looked close.”

“I _don’t_ know him. Not well, at least.”

Hermione gave him a dubious look.

“Okay, look,” Harry leaned forward, feeling the inexplicable need to defend himself. “We ran into each other, and just happened to be headed the same way. Besides, you’ve known me for years. When have you ever seen me with Riddle?”

Hermione still looked unconvinced, but she let the matter go. Harry pointedly ignored his own sense of relief. It was just a one-time incident, anyway. Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday (and happy holidays) Violettan1227! 
> 
> This is for my friend and IB comrade. May we both recover from the IB PTSD.
> 
> Note:  
> I have all 4 parts of the story written out, but I'm still editing the other 3. They will be posted once I'm happy with them!
> 
> Next time: Harry struggles with CAS (admit it. We've all been there)


	2. How Harry Stuggled with CAS Hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honour of all those suffering through their IB exams as we speak. These are dark times indeed. (I feel your pain)
> 
> A/N:  
> Quick apology for the delayed update. I've had a family emergency and I haven't had the time to return to my writing projects until recently. But as I've said in the last chapter, I've completed most of this so the next few chapters should be up soon. :)

“What do you mean I can’t use this for my service hours?” Harry demanded indignantly.  
  
“Harry, my boy,” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled sympathetically. “You are a paid employee. I’m afraid that no longer constitutes as community service.”  
  
Harry gaped. “But it counted last year!”  
  
“You were only a volunteer, then,” Dumbledore patted his shoulder understandingly. “I’m sorry, Harry, but I’m afraid you’ll have to find something else.”  
  
Harry fumed. It wasn’t his fault that the recreation centre had decided that he was too good at what he did to only be a volunteer and promoted him to a paid position of camp leader. It wasn’t his fault that football was one of the very few things that he was actually good at.  
  
…Well. Maybe it was.  
  
But the point still stood.

Harry could not afford to lose all of those hard-earned hours. _His CAS profile_ could not afford to lose all those hours. The school year was nearly over, and he had amassed enough hours for Creativity and definitely more than enough for Activity. But his Service portion came solely from his sparse hours of biology tutoring and mainly from football camp, and if the latter was to be taken away, Harry was confident that he would never be able to make it all up.  
  
And then, he would fail CAS. Which would literally be the most tragic thing that could happen to anyone, because _nobody_ fails CAS. And then, he would lose his IB Diploma. Because he failed CAS.  
  
And all of those coffee and kombucha fuelled late-nighters, crumpled past exam papers, tedious lab write-ups, and tears shed over his French _orale interactive_ practices would all have been for nothing. Nada. An entire year of suffering, undue stress, and internal screaming would all go up in smoke.  
  
“Professor Dumbledore, sir!” Harry pleaded. “Professor Dumbledore, how am I going to catch up with the CAS reflections? I need those hours, sir. Please- how am I supposed to explain it on Managebac?”  
  
“Rules are rules, my boy.” Dumbledore slid his CAS log sheets back to him. “You’ll have to figure out a way.” He gave a small but merry smile. “I have the utmost confidence in you, Harry. Come back and see me once you have something in mind.”  
  
Harry numbly gathered the papers and turned around, only to be faced with Tom Riddle’s smug, stupid smile from across the room. And, well, every other student from his CAS session. But at least they had the grace to avert their eyes in the face of his almost-breakdown.  
  
“Ah! Tom, my boy!” Dumbledore spoke as Harry morosely made his way back towards his seat. “You’re up next. Excellent timing, I’ve been meaning to speak to you about certain…complications, shall we say, in your CAS project proposal.”  
  
The smile vanished from the prefect’s face. Harry felt a stab of vindictive glee as he sat down. From the brief accusatory glare Riddle shot towards him, Harry knew that it must’ve shown in his expression.

“Tom, let’s discuss your summer plans. You’ve written here that you hoped to take on an unpaid internship…”

Harry let the two’s voices fade out as he settled down and focused on his own laptop screen.

  

* * *

 

“A law firm internship as a service project? _Really_ , Riddle?” Were the first words out of Harry’s mouth at their next meeting.

Riddle paused mid-stride, pointedly giving Harry a once-over before his gaze finally landed on the paper cap atop his head. Words weren’t needed to convey the prefect’s amused derision. Harry scowled. He swiped the Krispy Kreme Fundraiser hat off his head and jammed it into his pocket.

“Nice to see you as well, Potter,” Riddle said pleasantly, eyes still shining with that mocking glint.

“Oh, come off it,” Harry grumbled acerbically, “As if you’ve never had to do a donut sale for service hours.”

His eyes drifted forlornly to the right, where the stacked boxes of the unsold Krispy Kreme donuts stood. Their small tent and a foldable table stood pitifully on the side of the street, with a lone banner that read, ‘All proceeds will go towards local disenfranchised youths!’. He knew that somewhere across the street, Hermione was busy handing out pamphlets with Ron. Ron wasn’t even in IB, yet Hermione had managed to rope him into the event as well, along with Harry.

But Harry _needed_ the hours. Without his community centre volunteering, his CAS profile was woefully incomplete.

A shrug drew his attention, and he stared incredulously. “Bloody hell! You’ve never done one? How in the world are you meeting the requirements?” 

If Harry had been any less perceptive, he would not have caught the slight stiffening of Riddle’s shoulders. That now increasingly familiar sense of glee he had come to associate with Riddle’s misfortunes flared its head. 

“Oh, is the great Tom Riddle _actually_ struggling with CAS?” he gloated, determinedly ignoring his own being in similar straits. 

“Speak for yourself,” Riddle sniped testily, which spoke volumes, considering Riddle was never anything but pleasant for _everything_.

“Is it service, then?” Harry pushed onwards, smile widening when he sensed the other boy’s mood worsening. “If you want help, you could always ask, you know.” He smirked. “In fact, why don’t you lend me a hand? That should cover a good portion of your hours.”

Riddle’s lips thinned. “As if I’ll be seen doing something as _plebeian_ as a donuts sale.”

Harry snorted. “I can’t believe you unironically used the word ‘plebeian.’ Besides, it’s not like you have anything better to do. What’s the harm?”

“‘Unironically’ isn’t a word,” Riddle drawled, slipping his hands into his pockets. Harry fought not to scowl at the easy elegance of the action. “Well, now that you mention it, I do happen to have something…ah, ‘better to do.’” 

“Other than taking a stroll? What are you doing here, anyway?”

Harry blinked as he looked into the direction in which Riddle motioned. There, gathered outside what appeared to be a bookstore, was a group of professionally dressed individuals Harry recognized as Riddle’s closest minions-because Harry wasn’t actually delusional enough to believe that Riddle could have _friends_. 

“Really?” Harry deadpanned. “You’re hosting a pseudo-Illuminati playdate on a Sunday morning?”

He took joy in the irritated twitch of Riddle’s eye.

“It’s for _debate society_.”

“Same difference. Doesn’t make it any cooler if you say ‘society’ instead of ‘club’.”

He was certain that he was one of the few people in Hogwarts Secondary who could annoy the prefect to the point of cracking his mask. Another being Dumbledore, of course.

“This is a waste of time,” Riddle muttered, turning to leave.

“Wait!” Harry called, nearly stumbling over as he rushed out from his position behind the table. Riddle raised a questioning brow. “Why don’t you convince your followers to buy a few boxes of Krispy Kreme?”

“For the umpteenth time, they’re not my _followers_. And why would I do that?”

Harry opened his mouth to speak when he felt a sudden spark of genius. Something must’ve given away his thoughts, for Riddle’s expression turned cautious.

“Didn’t you say you need more service hours?”

“I didn’t _say_ anything. You assumed it,” Riddle snarked, “I _did_ say I’ve got no interest in aiding you in your pitiable attempt at a fundraiser, however.”

Harry didn’t bother arguing over the insult. Instead, he rolled his eyes dramatically. “I’m not asking you to volunteer. God knows you’d never do anything charitable.” Riddle smiled derisively. “Still, all our volunteers receive extra hours for the number of boxes they manage to sell. Two boxes per hour- I’ll extend the offer to you. How about it?” 

The other boy was interested now. Harry hid a grin.

“Why are you trying so hard?” Riddle’s eyes narrowed. ‘ _To help me_ ’ went unsaid.

God, he was full of himself. Harry scoffed. “It’s not for you, if that’s what you’re wondering. Hermione stated we can’t leave until we sell out all of the boxes, and honestly, I don’t see that happening anytime soon. And I’d _really_ like to go home.”

Riddle’s head tilted. “Hermione? Hermione Granger?”

“No, Hermione Lestrange,” Harry rolled his eyes sarcastically, “ _Yes_ , Hermione Granger. How many Hermiones do you know? But anyhow, she’s a slave driver.”

Riddle looked unimpressed. Harry internally sighed, knowing that the other boy would likely be walking away, leaving his offer unaccepted. It was worth a try anyway, however slim his chances were. 

But to his surprise-

“Alright,” Riddle nodded slowly. “What was it again? Three boxes for two hours?”

Harry glared, before resigning himself to the fact that Riddle wouldn’t be settling for anything less. “Ah, whatever. Sure. _Fine_.”

 The smug smile that crossed the other’s lips nearly made him rescind the offer. _Nearly_.

Harry’s scathing glance followed the older boy as he strolled across the road. But his anger didn’t last for long. It _couldn’t_ , not when the small group sauntered away later carrying nearly half of the stack of boxes Harry still had to sell. 

Hell. His job had just gotten much easier. And Riddle had just bought— _ahem_ , _earned_ —himself a good chunk of service hours.

Speaking of Riddle, he lingered behind, looking expectantly at Harry. “Well?”

“‘Well?’” Harry prompted. 

Riddle gave him a pointed look. “When will I get my log sheet signatures?”

Harry sighed. “I’ll take care of it, don’t worry. Mum’s signing for all of our volunteers.”

When the other boy hesitated, Harry huffed and walked up to him. Riddle eyed him with wariness and practically froze when Harry’s hand darted out and stuck the Krispy Kreme hat on his perfectly styled hair. Harry held out his phone and took a photo, smiled blindingly at the camera while Riddle’s expression remained one of stunned uncertainty.

“There,” Harry said smugly, tucking his phone away. “I’ll send it to you—you can post it on Mangebac as photographic evidence.”

Riddle stood stock still for another moment before his stiffened features smoothed themselves out into his normal mask of indifference. He took off the hideous cap—Harry wore it, but that didn’t mean he _liked_ it—and tossed it back across the table. Harry barely managed to catch it before it dropped to the ground.

“Don’t bother,” Riddle exhaled, before turning and walking off after his group of acquaintances.

Harry saw him off with a shit-eating grin, feeling the full weight of the blackmail-worthy material in his pockets. It was a feat of nature that he had even managed to catch him off guard in the first place. He circled back behind the table once Riddle was out of sight, and rearranged the remaining Krispy Kreme boxes. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of red hair approaching.

“Harry-” Ron’s voice cut off abruptly as he came to a halt. “Blimey. Looks like you’ve found your calling!”

“Was that Riddle?” Hermione followed a few steps behind, carrying a much thinner pile of pamphlets than she had left with. 

“Who cares about that prick.” Ron waved dismissively. “Look at that!” He gestured excitedly to the wad of banknotes on the table. “Harry’s a natural businessman!” 

Harry purposefully averted his eyes so as to avoid meeting Hermione’s increasingly suspicious scrutiny. “Perhaps I chose the wrong HL’s,” he joked. Ron—bless his obliviousness—nodded along enthusiastically. 

“Damn right you did! And here I was afraid that we’d stuck here ’til the late afternoon!”

“One of the school clubs came by,” Harry explained when it looked like Hermione was about to speak. He wasn’t up for facing one of her interrogations at the moment. “They were headed for a meet-up, so they bought a few boxes to take along.”

“A few? More like _a dozen_!” Ron enthused.

Hermione, however, only frowned. “That’s awfully lucky-and so early in the morning, too.”

Harry wasn’t about to tell her that he’d practically made a deal with the devil, so he simply shrugged. 

As Malfoy always liked to preach during their TOK sessions—the end justifies the means. For the first time throughout the entirety of his high school years, Harry found himself agreeing with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Harry sees Tom around. A lot. He wonders why. And of course, more IB shenanigans.


End file.
